


come between us, two dreamers

by zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi
Summary: Leslie's campaign for city councilor has thrown Ben some curveballs over the last couple of months, but this latest development, even by Knope standards, is pretty wild.





	come between us, two dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> for C—some OT3 à la carte. C stands for Chief Instigator. how dare you

 

 

Leslie’s campaign for city councilor has thrown Ben some curveballs over the last couple of months, but this latest development, even by Knope standards, is pretty wild. Ben stares at Jen as she clips smartly and confidently away in her ridiculous black heels.

 

“What were you talking to Jen about?” Leslie asks, sidling up beside him.

 

“Oh, nothin’,” Ben says, gulping. “Just—um—nothin’. Hey, do you know a good place to buy jeans?”

 

Leslie narrows her eyes. “ _Benjamin Wyatt._ ”

 

“Okay, okay,” Ben says. “Jen offered me a job! On a congressional campaign! But it’s in Washington.” He watches Leslie go through a range of emotions, beginning and ending with gob-smacked delight and a bit of trepidation, and, oh god, he’s about to make it so much worse. “Oh, and she also, uh, came onto me. Well, _us_. A little—well, a lot.”

 

“ _Wuh_ - _huh_?” Leslie says, wide-eyed. “Wha-bah— _wuhhhh_ —”

 

Ben makes a similar series of noises in answer, and Leslie’s face goes a little pink, and they eventually regain enough coherence to agree to talk about it later. Ben’s sure Leslie will forget, though; there’s a lot going on right now. _He_ wants to forget, too, but Jen’s perfume is still in his nostrils, and when he closes his eyes, he can still hear the sound of her heels ringing out on the gymnasium floor, except in the darkness of memory, those heels and those legs are getting closer and closer. Like _Jaws_ , but sexy—but _scary_ —but _hot_.

 

Later, they find some time to talk about Washington, and Leslie wins the election. Ben thinks everything is okay, they can move on from this, they can let it go—

 

Until Leslie says, literally the moment she steps from the podium, the last uplifting sentence of her victory speech still echoing warmly in Ben’s ears, “So about Jen—”

 

 

 

Jen is at JJ’s Diner, too, poking at a salad in a corner booth and carefully drinking Evian from a bottle. Her eyes light up when she sees Leslie and Ben threading their way somewhat drunkenly across the tiles toward her.

 

“Congratulations, well done, never doubted it for a second, swell job, you crazy kids,” she says, all in a rush, and then she pulls a big old-fashioned room key out of her pocket and twirls it around her finger. “You ready to get out of here?”

 

“So,” Leslie says, and her grip on Ben’s hand is tight and sweaty. “Soooo. _So._ ”

 

Ben says, “I think what Leslie is trying to say is, this is all a little sudden, Jen.”

 

Jen goggles at them. “Is it, though?” she says. “I’ve been making eyes at you the whole campaign. You really didn’t notice?”

 

“Er,” Ben says. He does remember one or two eyebrow raises and lingering gazes, now that he thinks about it, and he can see from Leslie’s dazed and glassy expression that she is definitely starting to remember, too.

 

Jen continues, “And then we _lost_ , and I’m kind of bummed out about it. I need a little pick-me-up. A little somethin’-somethin’, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I like you—both of you. You work hard. You’ve got what it takes. The _goods_.” She tosses her hair, throws her shoulders back, grins up at them both, a little tired, a little eager. “You guys in or what?”

 

Leslie looks at Ben.

 

Ben shrugs.

 

 

 

It’s not the best sex of Ben’s life—probably because he has a hard time wrapping his head around the logistics of it all, or the fact that _this is happening, this is real_ —and also on concentrating in general, because it’s really hard to concentrate when your girlfriend is shaking apart above you and a tawny-headed lioness is trailing her way up your thighs and you can feel her hair on your— _well_ —it wasn’t the best sex, but it was definitely up there. Nine out of ten, would threesome again.

 

He passes out, relaxed to the point of bonelessness, and wakes up at five a.m. just in time to catch Jen tiptoeing out of the room with her rolling suitcase.

 

“ _Love_ to stay and chat,” Jen says, in an undertone, because Leslie is dead asleep, face-down on the bed and mumbling about waffle-related ordinances into her pillow. “Can’t, though.” She taps her watch cheerfully and winks. “Gotta jet. I’ll see _you_ in D.C., you stud.”

 

Ben slumps back onto the bed, and Leslie groans and curls up against him. He puts his arm around her shoulder and squeezes.

 

“Wow,” she murmurs. “I think my orgasms had orgasms. That was definitely—something.”

 

“Yeah,” Ben agrees.

 

“We should do that again, probably,” Leslie says. She struggles upright and looks him in the eye, equal parts hopeful and determined. “Like, maybe all the time?”

 

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“Bless you, Ben Wyatt,” Leslie says, “reelin’ in the big fish with your cute li'l tush,” and Ben laughs and draws her down to kiss her.

 

 

 

Leslie doesn’t go to the library, because the library is the worst, but she does go to the only bookstore in town and buys the whole shelf of books on relationship advice. And also three books on breakfast foods. And an expanded edition of _The Making of Game of Thrones_ , for Ben, which he has already, but it’s okay. There’s only one book on polyamory, though, so she has to turn away from supporting local businesses just this once and use Ben’s Amazon Prime account. She spends a week reading and highlighting everything, and then she creates a binder full of ground rules, as well as a binder full of hopes and dreams, and finally a scrapbook, still mostly empty, to be filled with pictures and ticket stubs and brochures and wonderful, wonderful memories.

 

“If we’re gonna do this,” the grinning and slightly pixelated image of Leslie on Ben’s laptop says, “we’re gonna have to talk about it. Check your email, I sent you the scans as PDFs. And ePUBs. And MOBIs. I don’t know your preferred digital reading format. What’s your preferred digital reading format? Oh, well, you can tell me later. The hard copies are on their way, too. How’s your schedule looking for next week? Same time, same video-chat application?”

 

Jen turns to Ben with a pleading look. Ben smiles and spreads his hands wide. You’ve made your bed, his gesture says.

 

“Jen? Ben? Guys?” Leslie pokes at her keyboard. “I think you froze.”

 

“No, we’re still here,” Ben says. He gives Jen a nudge.

 

“Ugh, fine,” Jen says. “Same time next week. I’ll read the ePUBs. Please stop sending boxes to my office.”

 

“What?” Leslie yells over her shoulder. “Oh my god, you’re kidding. Damn it, Jerry! Not again. I gotta go, you guys, Jerry’s stuck in the elevator on the fourth floor with those useless animal control guys and a mutant pigeon. This could be bad. Jen, go win that campaign! Ben, don’t let her talk you into sacrificing your ideals for limited gain in the political and literal morass of our nation’s capital! Bye! I love you!”

 

She hangs up. Jen slams the laptop shut and turns to Ben. “Your girlfriend is nuts,” she says.

 

Ben grins. “You’re so into it.”

 

“Ugh,” Jen says again. “Yes. I am. Now get moving, Wyatt, Murray’s speech isn’t going to write itself.”

 

 

 

They’ve been going strong for three months, rocking this whole long distance thing, when Leslie comes to Washington to visit. April and Andy have fucked off to their hotel room; Ben and Leslie have followed Jen back to her improbably central brownstone on K Street.

 

Ben gets a call and has to step out to give a statement for the Murray campaign. He comes back and finds Leslie lying in bed, staring at the monstera plant by the window with a dazed and disbelieving expression, looking for all the world like the plant has transmuted itself into a hologram of Hillary Rodham Clinton and declared that Leslie is her only hope.

 

“What’d Gwen want?” Jen says, muffled because Leslie has a death grip on her hair and isn’t letting her lift her head all the way up. She’s on a first-name basis with everyone at PBS NewsHour.

 

“Uh,” Ben says, still taking in the scene. “Sorry, what?”

 

“Aw, no, come on—” Leslie groans. “Don’t stop, don’t _stopppp_ —God, Jen! You’re— _so_ —hnnaghhh—”

 

“That’s right,” Jen says, drawing back with a wet _pop_. Her lipstick is somehow still perfect. Ben stares. How does she _do_ that? “I’m really good at everything. I’m amazing.”

 

“Come here, babe,” Leslie says, opening her arms. “Politics later,” she adds, which is a ludicrous thing for Leslie Knope to say. It’s ludicrous, whatever it is Jen Barkley is doing to them.

 

Ben is already loosening his tie.

 

 

 

They win another election. April and the interns go home, and the office is quiet, and Ben is, too, standing by his desk and looking around, reflecting:  months of hard work, sweat, sleepless nights, all for this one temporary moment of elation, a flute of champagne thrown back, bright on his tongue, and then this, the dimming of office lights and the silence. He feels a little hollow.

 

Jen knocks on the glass. Ben looks up and sees immediately that she’s undone another button on her blouse. She strides in and sits on his desk and looks at him, deep and searching, chin in hand.

 

“What are you doing after this?” she says.

 

“Oh, I was gonna order a chicken parm and watch _Blade Runner_ ,” Ben says, and then trails off. “ _Oh_ ,” he says. “You mean…”

 

“Yes, Ben,” Jen says. She undoes another button, and then one more. “ _I mean…_ ”

 

“Let me get Leslie on Skype,” Ben says.

 

“You do whatever you have to do,” Jen says, hands at his belt, “I’ll just be right here—”

 

Leslie is in a meeting, though ( _sry babe raccoon crisis down at the rec center, have fun love u_ ), so it ends up being just the two of them, Ben looking nervously through the glass walls of his office in case any of the interns have forgotten something and decide to come back—he can just imagine the look of shock on April’s face, and its slow transformation into a shit-eating grin—and Jen grinding down on him, guiding his head to her breasts, bracing her hands on his desk and arching wildly as she comes.

 

They end up on the floor, eating chicken parm in their underwear while Ben watches _Blade Runner_ making-of clips on YouTube and Jen lies down with her head in his lap and checks her emails on her phone.

 

“Hey, Wyatt,” she says, hitting the space bar on Ben’s keyboard. Ridley Scott freezes mid-gesture. “How do you feel about alligators?”

 

 

 

“I think I have to turn down the job,” Ben says, two days later on board a small yacht in Florida.

 

“What?” Jen says, dribbling her drink back into its glass in shock. “Now you listen to me, Benjamin Wyatt—”

 

Ben smiles. Jen looks amazing in this lighting, he thinks, all soft golds and pinks and oranges, bringing out the red luster of her hair, bringing a flush to her cheeks, although that might be the alcohol. He loves everything about his life right now, about the boat bobbing gently beneath them, the sea breeze and the lights twinkling on across the Fort Lauderdale cityscape, and Jen’s hair. But what he really wants is Pawnee in October:  the crisp pine-scented air and crunching leaves and the pollution-filled glory of the sun setting behind the western mountains, and Leslie’s hand in his.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “I took a night and thought about it, like you said. I’m going home to propose to Leslie.”

 

“Oh,” Jen says. She tosses her drink over the side, pours another, and toasts him. “Well, hell! Congratulations, Wyatt.” She drinks thirstily. “You crazy kids.”

 

 

 

Marriage changes things, mostly for the better. Ben is almost exuberant, radiating disgusting, Chris-Traeger levels of joy. His parents’ own experiences have led him to believe that happy coexistence is impossible even between two mostly monogamous partners, and yet here they are, Ben and Leslie and Jen, proving everyone wrong. Jen turns Pawnee into a sort of stopover, a Midwestern base of operations; if she’s flying West, she’ll usually spend a night or two at the Knope residence—in by sundown, out by sunrise. Leslie tries to recruit Jen into some of her crazier political schemes, and sometimes Jen says yes and gets that scary bright look in her eye (she uses it to stare Councilman Jamm down on two separate occasions and makes Jean-Ralphio weep in mingled fear and arousal), and other times she hides in Ben’s study while Leslie hunts her, remote in hand and white wine and TiVoed History Channel documentaries waiting downstairs.

 

They hit a rough patch when Leslie gets recalled, mostly because Leslie is so damn determined to run again, and Jen has _no_ time for this nonsense—

 

“You okay?” Ben says, after Jen strides past without a second look, dragging her chair behind her.

 

“Yes,” Leslie says. Jen closes the door—not quite a slam, but it’s not gentle either. “No. Yes, but no.”

 

“Okay, which is it?” Ben says. He smiles. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you have a press conference in five minutes.”

 

“ _Bennnnn_ ,” Leslie groans, unexpectedly, and she slumps forward and rests her cheek on her desk. “Jen smells so good. She looks great, and she smells good, and she’s the only person that I, Leslie Knope, the human steamroller, would happily lie down in front of and be steamrollered by, and she said I should believe her about not running again, because she doesn’t care enough about us to _lie_.”

 

“Oh—okay— _wow_ ,” Ben says. “First of all, that’s ridiculous. We both know that Jen—”

 

Well, they don’t, really, do they? Ben reflects. Jen’s like that chaos theory butterfly animation—she flits in and out of their lives, and they don’t know what she does when she’s not there. It’s impossible to keep tabs on her. Ben has tried. Ben has started and discarded multiple spreadsheets trying to triangulate Jen’s movements based on weather patterns, political cycles, and the phases of the moon. Leslie has a Google alert. None of it works. Jen alights and Jen takes off, leaving love-struck political junkies in her wake and upsets at the county- and state level. Just a toss of a ballot, a flip of that glorious mane of hair, and she’s gone.

 

Oh my god, Ben thinks, maybe he and Leslie aren’t the only ones. He can just see it in his imagination—Jen rolling up to some other cute little house in the suburbs, being greeted by Hot Rebecca and her nonprofit director husband with his improbably chiseled jaw and brilliant ideals, in one of the many other Pawnees of the Midwest.

 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says, heart sinking. “I thought an hour with Jen would help.”

 

“Oh, Ben,” Leslie says. She looks up and smiles bravely at him. “It did help, and you are a wonderful supportive husband, and I love you very much. Come on.”

 

Leslie gives her press conference, and Ben produces Paris from his pocket, and thirty-six hours later they’re clipping a lock to the bridge over the Seine. They stroll the streets and eat the sweets, and Leslie wears red and hums under her breath, _Je ne veux pas dejeuner, je ne veux pas travailler, je veux seulement oublier_ —

 

So they stop trying to convince Jen to stay for breakfast, and Leslie stops trying to introduce Jen to her mother, and they move on with their lives. Maybe a little more quickly than Ben thinks is sane or reasonable—not that he isn’t happy to be starting a family with Leslie, but _my god,_ Ben thinks, _we never seem to be able to do anything by halves._

 

“ _Triplets_?” Jen screams at them through Google Hangouts, in a short call that Ben and Leslie spend alternating between dementedly wide smiles at Jen and panic-stricken glances at each other. “Oh my god, your lives are over. Call me in eighteen years when you have free time again.”

 

She still sends them a fruit basket and a card, though, and takes a whole unpaid hour (and then some) talking Ben off the ledge when he has his spreadsheet-based meltdown.

 

“Your kids are going to be super geniuses, it’ll be fine,” she says. “Harold, come on, pull yourself together. It’s only C-SPAN, Harold! They’ll get scholarships—”

 

“That’s what Leslie said, too,” Ben says.

 

“—and if they don’t, fuck it, I’ve got some serious dirt on everyone in charge of the Harvard endowment. Harold, I swear to God—don’t worry, Wyatt, I got you and Leslie covered. Just say the word.”

 

“O-kay,” Ben says, cautiously.

 

“You’re going to be amazing parents,” Jen says, then immediately ruins the moment by adding, “Never ask me to babysit. I am only interested in you for the sex, which is, admittedly, spectacular. Mostly because of me, Jennifer Barkley, sex goddess. Get out, Harold, go splash some water on your face. And you call yourself a wonk. This is nothing, Harold!” Ben can almost _hear_ her tossing her hair back. He does actually hear her closing her office door and pressing the button that activates the privacy glass:  _beep_ , and then a rustle as she gets comfortable in her chair. “So, tell me:  what are you wearing right now?”

 

“Really?” Ben says. “I just told you I’m going to be a father.”

 

“Yeah,” Jen says. “Put out or shut up, Daddy-o.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s how that goes,” Ben says. “But, uh, it’s that gray shirt that Leslie likes so much, the one—”

 

“Oh, god, no, not the one with the hobbits,” Jen says. “Damn it, Ben, that is so unsexy.”

 

“To Isengard!” Ben says, feebly. Leslie loves this shirt. She thinks it’s hilarious and cute and just the right length to show off his adorable butt (her words, not his).

 

“Next time I’m in town, we’re going to have a serious chat about your dirty talk, Wyatt,” Jen says. “Mood:  murdered. Ugh. Go kiss your wife’s stomach for me or something.”

 

Ben does, smiling as Leslie hums and threads her fingers through his hair.

 

 

 

The days speed into months and then years. Ben runs for Congress; Leslie runs for governor, and Jen is a constant in their homes in Pawnee and Washington, D.C., breezing in for the long weekend and back out again with a careless wave. The kids refer to her as the Poncho Spy Lady and tell each other stories about her cloak and dagger exploits. Ann and Chris call her “your girlfriend,” and April still can’t believe that Ben and Leslie have managed, just this once, to do something cool. Between Leslie’s first and second terms, Ben releases _Cones of Dunshire III:  Legend of Istarana_ and a limited-edition spellcaster, the tawny-haired, leonine Fixer.

 

His own hair starts to turn silver at the temples, and Leslie’s laugh lines get deeper; the kids stop being so weirdly sticky all the time and start getting really unbelievably tall. Ben looks at them as they pore over their SAT prep books and chase after athletic awards (baseball, lacrosse, and track and field) and wonders where all the time has gone.

 

Jen changes, too—she changes her perfume. And her hair color, just a bit, though Ben would be a fool to remark upon it. In every other aspect, she remains as sleek and sharp as ever. And she never, ever oversleeps.

 

 

They’re actually talking about Jen when she shows up again, working through a pros and cons list to decide which one of them should run for president next election cycle. (“It’s weird that Jen hasn’t brought this up. Don’t you think it’s weird? Do you think she’s holding out on us because she’s worried it’ll affect our chances?” “It’s 2038, Leslie; there’s no way anyone still cares about that. Not after we found out about the Obamas and the Bidens.” “Good point, sweetie,” Leslie says, and draws a polygon in the Pros column.) The front door bangs open, because Jen’s had a key since forever, and a split second later she’s stalking right into the living room in a blast of cold air. She knocks over their easel pad without a second glance, scattering markers across the carpet.

 

“You, me—” she turns to Ben “— _you_ , and a week in the Seychelles. How’s that sound?”

 

“What?” Leslie says. “Jen, it’s the middle of December!”

 

“Yes, exactly,” Jen says. “Let’s take a week and get the hell out of Dodge and all this gross winter weather. I’m tired of being dry and scaly.”

 

Leslie laughs. “Oh, Jen,” she says. “You may be temporarily dry and scaly, but you are also a beautiful, fierce, _magical_ political dragon. Embrace it. Embrace your inner dragon.”

 

“Oh, trust me,” Jen says. “I have. So:  Seychelles. I saw some flights out of Dulles next Tuesday, fifteen hundred bucks a pop. It’s a steal.”

 

“Oh,” Ben says. “We can’t…I mean, that’s kind of short notice, Jen. Also, I wouldn’t really call that a steal. It’s kind of expensive.”

 

“Notice, schmotice,” Jen says. “Come on. You can subtract the cost of the hotel if you’re really that worried about it, you massive accounting nerd. I’ve got a condo on La Digue, huge bed, emperor sized. Imagine it, Wyatt! The _Seychelles_. Blue skies, bluer water. Bikinis optional. Let me say that again:  bikinis. Optional.”

 

“Not that it doesn’t sound like it would be amazing,” Ben says, “because it _does_ , but Leslie and I are booked straight through the holidays. The kids’ll be home on Monday, and we’re going to take them to pick out a Christmas tree and decorate it, and make a truckload of gingerbread—” he catches Leslie’s eye “— _people_ , and Marlene is flying in—”

 

“And it’s the fourth anniversary of our first Eleanor Roosevelt documentary marathon!” Leslie chimes in. “We’re totally gonna rewatch all of those documentaries! By the fire! It could take _days_!”

 

“Yeah,” Ben says, trying not to look too alarmed. This is the third year in a row that he’s completely forgotten about Eleanor Roosevelt Documentary Marathon Day. His most Roosevelt-era-worthy suit is still at the drycleaners. Leslie’s going to be so disappointed. “ _Days_ , Jen.”

 

“Oh, all right, fine,” Jen says, flapping her hand. She gets to her feet and speeds toward the door, stepping over the fallen easel. “Family and obligations and stuff, I get it. I’ll bring you back a chunk of coral or something.”

 

“No!” Leslie exclaims. “No, Jen, that’s terrible for the environment! Please don’t contribute to the cavalier stripping of one of our planet’s most beautiful natural resources, the eighth wonder of the world, the coral reefs!”

 

“All right, a conch shell, then,” Jen says, and blows out of their lives for the next three months.

 

 

 

She blows back in like a tropical storm, deeply tanned and incredibly wound up, stomping right into the kitchen. It’s six p.m. on a Tuesday, on the dot, and the kids are in transit on planes, trains, and automobiles, on their way to finish their spring semesters (Stanford, Harvard, Georgetown). Jen Barkley’s timing is nothing if not impeccable, no matter how jetlagged she may be. Ben is in the middle of sneaking some spinach into his show-stopping, award-winning calzone-inspired casserole, which is _not_ just lasagna, thank you very much, and he nearly drops it all on the floor at the sight of her, of this wild-eyed and panting apparition, hands opening and closing as she stares around the kitchen and narrows in on her quarry.

 

“You, me, _you_ —” she grabs Ben by the apron strings and Leslie by the left pocket of her blazer “—bedroom, _bed_ , _now_.”

 

“Whoa,” Ben says, staggering. “Hey, Jen. Welcome back.”

 

“Jen!” Leslie says, delighted, squirming around in Jen’s arms and pushing her glasses down her nose to get a better look. “Holy crap, you look amazing!”

 

“What the hell happened?” Ben says. “We’ve been following the news. What a crazy turn of events! I mean, the first female candidate for the SPSJD—and the first non-majority political victory in over a _decade_ —”

 

“Talk. _Later_ ,” Jen says, grabbing a bit of Ben and a lot more of his wife.

 

“Oooh, okay!” Leslie says brightly. They barely make it to the couch.

 

 

 

“Is everything okay?” Ben asks, at six a.m. the next day. Jen is still _there_ , for some reason, and the mere realization that she hasn’t darted out the door in the pre-dawn hours is enough to start Ben’s heart hammering in his chest.

 

She’s drinking an outsized cappuccino at the island, wearing Leslie’s underwear and one of his shirts. It’s too small for her, the eye of Sauron distorting across her chest. The sun is rising, sending sharp slices of light through the kitchen through the gaps between the blinds. The cappuccino is from the Victoria Arduino Venus Century espresso machine[*](http://www.victoriaarduino.com/portfolio-items/venus-century-2/) that Jen gifted to them on their eleventh wedding anniversary, which looks like something out of a steampunk movie, and which Ben has so far been afraid to use, much less _touch_. But Jen is fearless.

 

“No,” Jen says, while the sun glitters on her fingers, wrapped tightly around the mug. “No, everything is not okay. You broke me. You and your insane wife broke me.”

 

“Um,” Ben says, bewildered. They’re all getting older, and he sort of thought they’d actually been—well— _tender_ with one another, the night before. At several points they’d just _held_ each other and breathed, and Leslie kissed Jen’s eyelids, and Ben had _sighed in bliss_. “We’re…sorry?”

 

“You should be!” Jen says, slamming her mug down and sloshing coffee everywhere. “My God, Wyatt! That thing in the Seychelles—I took it on _pro bono_! I signed on because I _believed_ in them! In their message! In _democracy_! It’s all Leslie’s fault!” She folds over and mumbles something into the cappuccino.

 

“Oh, Jen, I’m so proud of you!” Leslie exclaims as she comes skipping down the stairs. “You know, it’s just like Shirley Chisholm always said—”

 

“What was that?” Ben says, stalling the rest of Leslie’s speech with a frantic wave of his hand. “What did you just say, Jen?”

 

“Leave me alone to die,” Jen says. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

 

“No, that’s not it,” Ben says, and Jen puts her head in her hands and mutters it again.

 

“Oh my god,” Leslie says, sharing a wide-eyed look with Ben. “Oh my god, Jen, you love us. You like us, and you _love_ us! You can’t live without us! You want to be with us—you wanna do this thing for real!”

 

Jen looks up at them, makeup smudged, shirt wrinkled, hair wild, eyes wild. Ben stretches out his hand, blind, and Leslie takes it and squeezes tight.

 

“Yeah,” Jen says. The sun turns her hair red and gold, turns her cheeks pink. And then she squares her shoulders and smiles, a little tired, a little eager. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. For real. For _keeps_. So—you guys in or what?”

 

 

 


End file.
